by Vered Ehsani
As there were no words of wisdom forthcoming from either ghost or monkey, I continued scrutinizing the description of her plans. In none of her words could I discern the happiness that such circumstances normally inspired in young women; she was merely reciting the details of the forthcoming nuptials as if it were a grocery list. Also lacking was any inquiry into the welfare of her former beloved, my brother Drew.
“Well, that’s that, then,” I said after finishing my perusal of the letter. “I shall most likely never see her again.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Bee,” Gideon, the father of theatrics, chastised me. “I’m sure in your older age, you’ll return to London, if for nothing else than to chase down some villain or investigate another mystery.”
“Indeed, not even those would entice me to return,” I said, frowning at the notion.
My metal left hand twitched in agitation, reminding me how much my life had altered since departing England. While I’d lost my left hand to a giant Praying Mantis, I’d at least managed to infuse it with my wolf energy. How remarkable, I mused, that the werewolf bite I’d suffered as a child had given me the means to power my replacement hand.
“Why ever not?” Gideon asked. “I’d like to go home one day.”
“Nairobi is home now, Gideon,” I chastised him as I stared at the unopened envelope. “To return to that other land would be to expose myself to the intrigues of the Society. That would never do.”
“I suppose,” Gideon said, dragging out each syllable. Noticing my reluctance to open the other letter, he jerked his chin toward it. “So what about that one?”
I tapped the envelope against my open palm. “It’s written by someone from whom I’d hoped never to hear again.”
“How thrilling,” he said and clapped his hands. Shelby imitated him. “Who is it?”
“Prof Runal, Director of the Society for Paranormals.”
Chapter Three
APART FROM SHELBY clapping and squealing, there was silence in the kitchen. Uncharacteristically sober, Gideon studied me with some concern. And well he should, for he’d been with me when I’d learned of the terrible betrayal of my former mentor and employer, the werewolf Prof Runal.
“Aren’t you in the least bit curious about what he’s written?” Gideon finally asked, his gaze fixed on me.
Swatting at the monkey to shush her, I tapped my metal fingers against the wooden table. “What could he possibly wish to say to me?” I asked. “He was complicit in my parents’ death, and my biological father had to flee into exile. To top it off, he admitted to your murder as well.”
“Let’s burn the letter,” Gideon said with unseemly enthusiasm as he flung out a hand to indicate the black metal stove. “Who cares what the fiend has to say? Probably more excuses.”
Before I could decide on the matter, there was a knock at the front door.
“It can’t be anyone we’d care to see,” Gideon reasoned. “Our friends know better than to come by the front door.”
“Or they don’t knock at all,” I added, thinking of Yao and his habit, both endearing and irksome, of letting himself into the cottage whenever he saw fit.
“Precisely. So about that letter.”
The person knocked again, louder and with greater insistence.
Unimpressed, Gideon frowned. “A persistent visitor, it seems.”
“The worst sort,” I said. “Such a visitor will be sure to overstay his welcome.”
“Deplorable,” Gideon agreed. “Where’s the God of Death when you need him most?”
“Hopefully nowhere near,” I said. The God of Death and I hadn’t parted on the best of terms, for I’d entered the Underworld without his permission and rescued Jonas’ daughter before Death could force her to marry him.
If Death knew that I was planning on returning to rescue another soul, he’d surely try to obliterate me with his fire-spewing spear. He wouldn’t care that Anansi the Trickster God and his demon wife Koki had blackmailed me, threatening to kidnap my pregnant cousin if I didn’t agree to assist them.
Jonas stomped through the kitchen’s back door and smacked a bag of potatoes on the counter just as a third knock echoed through the cottage. Feigning deafness, he set himself to scrubbing the vegetables.
Sighing, I stuffed the letters into my skirt pocket and went to answer the door. Standing before me in a pristine white uniform was a young man of proud bearing, upright posture and haughty expression of superiority. These indications, combined with the inappropriate color and cut of his outfit that was utterly unsuited for the environs, clearly identified him as belonging to the class of recently landed, colonial bureaucrats.
“Mrs. Timmons, I presume?” he asked in a pompous fashion.
“You presume correctly,” I said, wondering if he would have worn all that white clothing if it had rained that day. The pants would have been covered in sticky red mud in no time at all.
“An invitation for you and Master Timmons,” he said. With a flick of his wrist, he handed me a card and raised his hand as if gracing me with a benediction. Thus having performed his duty, he wordlessly spun on a heel and marched to his wagon.
I decided that even if it had been storming outside and the paths transformed into muddy rivers, he would have worn the white uniform.
When I returned to the kitchen, Yao was leaning against the counter and chatting with Gideon while Jonas balanced on a short, three-legged stool and poked at the fire in the battered old stove’s round belly. As I’d just been relieved of one unwanted visitor, I wasn’t overly thrilled to have another one, although at least this time Yao was wearing trousers. Now if only he would consider covering his finely sculptured chest, I wouldn’t be tempted to admire his muscular physique and ebony skin quite so much.
Shaking such thoughts away, I sat at the table and poured a cup of tea. I was greatly relieved it was still steaming. Cold tea was such a nasty substance.
“How terribly clever of you to rid us so promptly of the intrusion,” Gideon said, interrupting my appreciation of my beverage and Yao’s upper half.
“Yes, yes,” Yao said while nodding with great enthusiasm. “Yao is also happy at this very promptly-ness.”
As there were more grammatical issues with that sentence than I cared to tackle at the moment, I ignored him and studied the card.
“It seems the English have well and truly landed,” I said as I read the invitation.
“Too many,” Jonas grunted by the stove. “Every other day, there’s a new trainload arriving.”
“Yes, it’s the policy of the British government to inundate new lands with as many would-be adventurers and hopeful settlers as possible,” I explained.
“Yummy,” Yao murmured. “More food.”
Jonas scowled at him while Gideon commented, “Well, someone has to civilize the likes of you, Yao.”
“Yao is very civil,” the Adze replied with a wounded air. “Look, Yao is wearing pants today!”
“Is that dead husband here?” Jonas demanded, having deduced as much from Yao’s conversation. As Jonas was unable to see ghosts, he took it upon himself to glare at me as if it were my fault I was a haunted widow.
“It seems your nuisance radar is finely tuned,” I said and before Gideon could protest, I added, “We’ve been invited to a sporting event which will include tea, crumpets and croquet.”
“Croaking sounds good,” Yao enthused. “Can Yao come?”
“No,” I said just as Gideon replied, “Of course.”
Grinning at me, Gideon continued, “After all, a croquet match would be incomplete without a bloodsucking firefly present.”
“Will Wanjiru be there?” Yao asked, his words filled with longing.
“Bah,” Jonas said. “My daughter, she’s working and won’t be eating crumpets and other horrid food.”
“Yao agrees,” the African vampire said approvingly. “These foggy people’s food is terrible. Now, Adze food is—”
“The invitation is for Mr. and
Mrs. Timmons,” I asserted before Yao could launch into what I was confident would be a revolting description of his preferred meal. “There’s no mention of ghosts and insects.”
“Of course not, Miss Knight,” Yao said while patting my arm. “Ghosts and insects can’t croak. So Yao won’t come as a firefly. He’ll come in this form.”
Jonas cackled by the stove.
“But why are you being invited to croak?” he continued, his finely shaped eyebrows rising.
“It’s croquet, not croaking,” I corrected the Adze. “It’s a game played by English people.”
“Yao likes games. How do you play? Does it involve eating or hunting? Or maybe someone dying?”
Frowning, I replied, “Absolutely not. It’s a perfectly safe game.”
“How sad,” Yao said, sighing.
“Although one does use a large mallet that, in theory, would make a fine weapon,” I added.
Gideon snickered as Yao’s expression brightened. “Go on, Miss Knight.”
I wondered when I’d resigned myself to playing croquet with a vampire. “One must hit a series of balls through metal hoops set up in the grass.”
Yao’s eyes widened at the description which, to be fair, must have sounded nonsensical to one who’d never seen a croquet court before. Clapping his hands and grinning gleefully, he said, “Teach Yao to play. That sounds much better than croaking.”
“Bah,” Jonas grunted, and I couldn’t disagree with him.
Chapter Four
AS I HAD nothing better to do and was in need of a distraction, I agreed to a demonstration of the English game. I led Yao and Gideon to a private croquet court the Hardinge family had set up in a corner of the garden.
A family of small antelope was nibbling at the longer grass on the edges of the court. As we approached, they fixed their large eyes upon us, flicking their ears, fearful yet unwilling to relinquish their meal. Only as we stepped onto the closely cut grass of the croquet court did they dash off in a flurry of delicate hooves.
As the metal hoops were already stuck into the ground, there was nothing to do but retrieve the heavy mallet and a few balls.
“Let’s just practice how to use the mallet. We won’t bother with the rules at this point,” I started to explain.
“That’s good,” Yao said, thumping his chest with one hand. “Yao doesn’t like rules.” He glanced toward the house, no doubt searching for a glimpse of his beloved.
“That’s for the best. Most rules are uncommonly foolish,” Gideon added as he pirouetted around a hoop.
“In truth, foolishness is all too common,” I said, narrowing my eyes at the ghost. Clearing my throat to gain the Adze’s attention, I continued, “You hold the mallet like so, with both hands. Let it swing ever so gently and tap the ball toward the hoops, like so.”
Leaning slightly at the waist, I tapped one of the balls. It rolled sluggishly through the nearest hoop. Yao clapped more enthusiastically than the action warranted.
“Now it’s your turn,” I said as I handed the wooden mallet to Yao.
“You’re giving the firefly a mallet?” someone asked from behind us.
We all turned to see Mr. Timmons, Tiberius and Lilly strolling from the house toward us. Tall and slim, Tiberius was, as always, dressed in a dark, well-fitted jacket and neatly pressed dark pants. It was hard to believe at such moments that he, the epitome of a kindhearted and respectable gentleman, was in fact a Popobawa and thus capable of transforming into a fearsome, man-sized bat. He supported Lilly’s arm with his own, studying the ground before them for any obstruction or hole that could unsettle her swelling form.
As for my cousin Lilly, the flouncy white dress couldn’t disguise any longer the increase in her belly that protruded before her. Despite her condition, her beautiful dark curls were draped artistically around her petite face and shoulders. Her small mouth was set in a determined line as she too scrutinized the ground before her. Only when she glanced up at me could I catch a glimpse of her blue eyes that matched the sky on a summer’s day. Her pale skin against her husband’s golden brown was a delightful contrast. They were a striking couple, and I was certain their baby would be as pleasing in appearance as they were, as long as it wasn’t born with bat wings.
The speaker, my husband, chuckled as Yao held the mallet in an awkward manner. In contrast to my half-brother Tiberius, Mr. Timmons was utterly careless of fashion and form. His hair was shaggy and unmanaged, so that wavy locks of dark hair bounced on his strong, broad shoulders. However, he had made some efforts in this department, for his sideburns were at least trimmed into a version of neatness.
As his gaze settled upon me, I lost myself in his gray eyes. It was only when his expression shifted to something approaching wicked and utterly inappropriate for public consumption that I turned my attention to the others, marveling that I was still capable of blushing despite being a married woman.
“Well, this is charming,” Lilly said as she gingerly settled herself onto a bench at the edge of the court. “Do carry on with your instructions, Bee.”
Gideon floated over to her side while Tiberius lit a cigarette. I nodded at Yao to proceed.
Before I could warn him otherwise, Yao closed his eyes and swung the mallet with impressive and unwarranted force. The resulting impact produced a loud cracking noise that startled every living creature in the area.
Thus the ball was launched into the air. It sailed across the court and through a window on the second floor of the Hardinge house, accompanied by the shattering of some delicate item from within.
“Did Yao win?” the Adze asked as he gazed about in expectation.
“If winning involves the destruction of precious vases,” Mr. Timmons drawled, “then absolutely.”
Yao jumped up and down, clutching the mallet to his naked chest. “Yao likes this game very much! Can we play again?”
“No,” I shouted as Tiberius said gently, “Perhaps another time, my dear fellow.”
“Who is that?” Lilly asked as she gestured to two people who had just rounded the corner of the house and were approaching the croquet court.
Leading the way was Chief Constable Dougal, a stout Scottish fellow with deep red cheeks that provided visual proof of both his temper and his liking for African brew. It was roundly acknowledged that he was most agreeable only after having consumed a few rounds of that brew. Otherwise, his craggy face was set in a dark scowl as if he was convinced that everyone around him was guilty of some crime or other, and it was his job to discover which one and act accordingly. He was one of the few people who wasn’t intimidated or disconcerted by my yellowish hazel eyes. However, that afternoon he appeared decidedly ill at ease, his steely blue gaze unable to meet my own.
He was not alone. By his side sauntered a woman whose very demeanor instantly prompted in me an adverse response. At first, I couldn’t identify why. It wasn’t due to her voguish attire, her petite features or her hourglass waist. Everything about her was neat, tidy and delicately put together in the loveliest possible way for a human. Her face was as flawlessly created and as pale as a porcelain doll.
But these superficial aspects surely couldn’t be the source of my ire. I was not the jealous sort, for such pettiness was beneath me, or so I’d always believed. My reaction, I reassured myself, was a result of the arrogant tilt of her chin, her commanding stroll, her smug smile and the vindictively victorious glint in her eyes as she stared at my husband. It seemed as if she knew him far too well for my liking.
“Oh, bother,” Mr. Timmons murmured.
“What is it?” I demanded.
“Trouble.”
“And does trouble have a name?” I asked curtly.
“She does at that,” Mr. Timmons said with suspicious mildness. “Miss Baxter.”
Before I could question him further, the Chief Constable and Miss Baxter reached us. Only then did I notice two other officers trailing behind. This was no mere social encounter.
“Ah, good af
ternoon,” Chief Constable Dougal said, addressing his salutations to the neatly cut grass. “My apologies for disrupting the activities.” He waved at the croquet hoops.
“You’re not disrupting at all,” Yao said cheerfully, his toothy grin bright against his dark skin. “Miss Knight needs tea, and Yao just won. Yao likes the croaking game, even if it is a bit silly.”
The Chief Constable’s head snapped up in astonishment at being thus addressed so casually by one of the natives. Tiberius cleared his throat and gestured to Yao to remove himself from the conversation.
“But it is silly,” Yao protested as he followed my brother several steps away. “Miss Knight says foolishness is very common. It must be a British thing.”
After a moment of silence, the Chief Constable harrumphed and, turning to Miss Baxter while gesturing toward Mr. Timmons, asked, “Madam, is this the gentleman?”
Sniffing her disdain, the woman replied in a pert and well-educated voice, “This is the person, but he is no gentleman.”
Ignoring the collective gasp, the Chief Constable turned to Mr. Timmons and said, “Forgive me, Mr. Simon Timmons, but you are under arrest.”
Chapter Five
“AND HE WAS upset when I traveled to the Underworld,” I grumbled as Tiberius assisted me onto the wagon. “How am I supposed to react to this unfortunate circumstance?”
“He’s not in any mortal danger,” Tiberius reminded me. “At least, not yet.”
“Being mortal is such a noisy,” Yao interjected as he leaped to my side and sat on the wooden bench.
“You mean nuisance,” I corrected him. “And yes, it can be.”
Yao smiled as if we were off to a picnic. “A noisy nuisance. Yao can change that, Miss Knight.”
Before I could comment on the offer, Lilly and Wanjiru exited the house. Yao sighed, a great longing evident in his posture as he gazed upon Jonas’ daughter. Jonas swiveled on the driver’s bench and scowled at the Adze who was blissfully ignorant of any objection to his affections.
